


Pilgrimage

by alba17



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he waited the long years for Merlin, Arthur knew their journey was not finished, no matter how unlikely that seemed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pilgrimage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt, "forever and a day." Inspired by the apple tree wassail ritual, as described [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apple_Wassail). Thanks to sabriel75 for looking it over.

A few wilted leaves clung to the branches, sere husks rustling in the chill winter breeze. Apples lay shrivelled and neglected beneath the gnarled and weather-beaten trunk. Fewer and fewer villagers honoured the old ways and most had forgotten the old tree by now, enshrined on a low hillock deep in the orchard.

On a grey day full of black birds arcing through the low-hanging clouds, a lone visitor traced a well-trod path along the dun-coloured slope. Not much changed, really, he observed, boots slipping along the muddy trail. The years had preserved this at least, though the world tilted madly at its edges.

His breath caught in his throat as the tree came into sight and he hitched his sword, wishing he could change things. But he didn’t have that power; all he could do was wait.

Sometimes he remembered nothing until he caught a random whiff of something herbal, rosemary or thyme, and suddenly there was Merlin in his mind’s eye, smiling like the sun, cheeky as always, as if he’d just returned from Gaius’ workshop or gathering herbs. The memories would rush in like sand through an hourglass, raw and overwhelming.

Other times his mind was plagued from an early age with vivid recollections, twisting and turning in on itself to fill the gaping hole that miserably gnawed at him, a fierce craving that could never be satisfied.

He reached the base of the tree, a familiar ache settling in his chest as the branches laced and curled above him, a dark scrim against the lowering sky. He lifted up the bowl in silent greeting, then placed it on the hard ground, careful not to spill any of the cider.

The bark was ridged and rough under his fingers as his bare hands spanned the trunk, hooking into a small hollow – the tree was bigger now than the last time. He stood there for a moment, listening to the birds in the sky and the quiet scritch-scratch of the branches, waiting.

There: an amorphous feeling settled in his bones, prickled along his spine. Satisfied, he pulled bread out of his satchel – the last loaf of white bread from the kitchen that morning - and set slices on the ground among the roots, patting them gently into place. When he was done, he leaned his forehead against the trunk, hands loosely curled around it. An apple tree really wasn’t very large, after all, but this was the most impressive one in the orchard; it had been here a long time, longer than anyone remembered.

He rubbed his cheek against the bark, focused intently, opening his mind and reaching out, his eyes clenched against the here and now. He drew his nose along the coarse, irregular surface as if it were smooth as the finest silk.

Then: long ago, long before anyone remembered --

 _A peel of laughter ringing above the bustling hall, a flash of incandescent smile and bright blue eyes; his eyes roamed, searching. There – raised eyebrow and feigned innocence, cocky devil - their gazes locked and the clamour fell away so it was only them and the endless minutes until the banquet ended and they could be alone again_ ;

\--except for him.

He let it come, a wave of images and sounds, the long-gone scents of hot metal and incense, cooking fires and rushes on the floor, when the ring of steel on the practice field and the weight of the chain mail on his back was as familiar and comfortable as the sound of his father’s voice soothing the dogs.

 _A shock of dark hair, a pale curve of torso languidly splayed over red bedclothes, a lusty smirk of invitation playing on his lips. Palms clutching at narrow hips, Arthur’s fingers curled around the jutting bone and pulled Merlin close, keeping him there until they were both sated and happy and thinking of love._

With a shuddery intake of breath, he swallowed down a sudden thickness in his throat, fingers trailing up the nearest branch and coming to rest in a near-embrace. A squirrel jumped and scampered over to the next tree and the air was still.

He needed to get on with things; the sky was darkening with the short day. Choking down his feelings, he let go of the tree and leaned over to pick up the bowl again. As he took off the cover, he could smell the cider’s sweet and pungent aroma, redolent of the essence of the apple. Using both hands to hold the wide bowl, he poured the cider over the roots of the tree, in honour of its fruit and in hopes of an abundant harvest in the coming year.

He drank the last of it himself, tipping the bowl up to get the dregs, pausing to ponder the mysterious, maddening man with whom his destiny was entwined. In the depths of his soul, he knew their journey was not finished, no matter how unlikely that seemed. It kept him coming back, year after year, life after life. He would keep coming back, until he knew Merlin was no longer there.

Then Arthur would find him again.

And he could live once more.


End file.
